


What Is Left In Apathy

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical School, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wounded Courfeyrac appears at Combeferre’s doorstep, and the night turns to one of revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Left In Apathy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for tumblr's Courferre week (Aug 18-24, 2013)

When a loud knocking pervaded their apartment in the dead of night, Combeferre thought that it could only be for an official matter — a contact with urgent news, or perhaps their landlady who often visited them in unearthly hours. He rose from his pile of notes and slipped on a thin coat that Enjolras had tossed on the armchair. With this meager attempt to look presentable, he opened the door a few inches and produced a warm smile for the kind old lady.

He did not expect it to be a bleeding Courfeyrac.

Albeit bleeding only lightly and even gracing him with a splendid grin, Courfeyrac was clearly wounded. His right hand was nursed by the other and was wrapped in what seemed to be a crumpled cravat already darkened with blood. “Good evening, Combeferre,” he greeted.

Combeferre was not as cheerful. He flung open the door, all traces of weariness gone, and let him in. “What did you do?” he cried as he led him to the table. Combeferre quickly grabbed a pitcher from the washstand and poured water into a large basin. Courfeyrac sat on one of the two chairs and watched him grab his implements as he told his tale.

“Contrary to what you clearly think, the fault does not lie with me,” he began. “I was minding my own in a good game of cards when this drunken excuse of a Parisian came bouncing to our side of the room. I would never have noticed him had he not smashed a bottle against our table and sent my winning hand flying!” He threw his free arm in an arching motion as if to demonstrate the projectile course of his cards. “And then he had the gall to lose consciousness on the spot. When I attempted to catch him, I put a hand on the table for support and lo and behold, broken glass!” Courfeyrac ceased from his gesticulation as pain shot from his injured hand. His face contorted to a grimace. “I’d have forgiven him, you know, had he not ruined my coat.”

Combeferre completed his assembly of instruments and took Courfeyrac’s injured hand on his own. “I’d advise you to keep your voice down,” he said faintly. “I’ve finally convinced our dear friend to get some sleep. I will not have him roused.” Courfeyrac eyed the dark hallway that was the passage to Enjolras and Combeferre’s rooms. He exhibited his most charming pout as Combeferre began to unwind the cravat from his hand. The cloth had absorbed the blood and left the wound tolerably clean. There were five or six shards in total, all small and easily extractable.  Combeferre reached for his pair of forceps, tested it to get a feel of it, and began extraction. His hand moved steadily as he made contact with the first shard. Courfeyrac’s mouth tightened to a thin line. He endeavored to let no sound, not even a hiss, escape from his lips. Worse wounds were in store for all of them, and he would not have himself balk on such a petty wound. In an effort to take his mind away from the pain, he engaged in conversation.

“Are you going to the opening on the Palais-Royal tomorrow?” Combeferre deposited the piece of glass to another basin. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve a student to tutor.” At this, Courfeyrac furrowed his brows in bewilderment. “You are giving lessons? Whatever for?” Another fragment fell into the basin. “For the income, of course. The stipend given to me as an intern is valuable but not enough. A medical student must find ways, and aiding new students who find their professors’ lessons lacking has proven substantial. Do you feel faint?”

The question had caught Courfeyrac off guard. “No.”

"Feverish?"

“I would never have made it here if I were.”

An amused smile appeared on Combeferre’s lips. He considered it a good sign that his friend’s usual wit was still intact. Courfeyrac’s thoughts however strayed to other matters. He had never considered that Combeferre struggled to keep coins in his pockets. He did know that his family maintained a respectable business that was agricultural in nature, but he never questioned further on its estimation. After shredding the last of the fragments, Combeferre positioned the injury over the basin and rinsed it with water. The room filled with the penetrating smell of rosemary. “What is that?” Combeferre smiled at the familiar aroma. “Camphor.”

Courfeyrac watched Combeferre fondly as he settled into routine. He applied to the lacerations a white ointment that made the wounds sting. The pain made Courfeyrac’s hand twitch, but Combeferre steadied it with detached professionalism and kept on. “I am always in awe of the men in your profession,” Courfeyrac said in a somber tone. “Every day, the effects of our society’s failures are thrust upon you, and yet you face them with an unfailing detachment. To treat men, women and children barely clinging on to this earth — I would not be able to bear it. I would rather bring down the system to deliver them from such a way of life, and yet you in the medical profession face them and redeem them of their wounds however temporary. With such astonishing objectiveness! The means is beyond me.”

Courfeyrac realized the dark route that he had steered the conversation to and strived to redeem it. “But then that would not be difficult for you!” he almost bellowed. “You were always cold.”

Courfeyrac would have thought the heavy mood vanquished had Combeferre not paused in dressing the wound. His face took on a distant expression, as if peeking into the shadows of a dark time. When he spoke, his voice was of a quality that could only be described as despondent. “The apathy was not always there,” he said. “Many will say that a doctor is not the best profession to have. For people of our bearing, the future that immediately comes to mind is that of a servant of the law, and yet there are men similar to myself who have a deep compassion for the ailing. We come to learn in Paris, or Strasbourg, or Montpellier. We bring with us the fervent willingness to help those who could be our patients. Then we come to the dissection room.” Courfeyrac remained still. He could not bring himself to impinge on this act of disclosure from Combeferre.

“We see the stack of limbs and smell the putrid emanations from the bodies. There were times that I myself could not tell if they were still human. We face death and made it the object of our work. We see to our living patients in the rounds, but strip a corpse of its humanity when we attack it with a scalpel. Out of necessity, we learn to suppress our emotions to mutilate another human, and we do it for the benefit of being able to save others in the future.” Here he paused. “Our compassion turns to fear, and in time, that fear is mastered. But what is left then?”

The bandage set neatly, and Courfeyrac kept his silence. He examined Combeferre’s room as if seeing it for the first time. They were sitting on the two chairs that attended to the table. Nearby were two armchairs, a clock, a fireplace, a book case, and a wash stand. If he went to the next room, he knew he would find two stiff beds, a writing desk with locks, and a chest of drawers. Before Enjolras had moved in, Combeferre was alone in this expanse. Courfeyrac imagined him when he first settled in Paris. He would have yet to have friends, he would not know the good places to eat at, the streets to steer clear of. He would choke on the thick Parisian air. He would spend hours in his lessons, in his hospital rounds and then in that haunted room where death mingled with the living. Combeferre would have suffered.

Courfeyrac huffed up his chest and raised his chin. “A mighty good that you have us then! That we may shield you from your tribulations.”

Combeferre looked at him truly. It seemed as if he had just been made aware of Courfeyrac’s presence; he was glad of it. “I admit that you have been my mental repose.”

Courfeyrac gave him a loving smile. Wordlessly, he reached out his free hand to the back of Combeferre’s neck, pulled him towards himself, and guided his forehead to his own shoulder. Combeferre kept still, but he did not resist. He reveled in the warmth of companionship. Courfeyrac had always been warm. After a while, he closed his eyes and returned the embrace.

"I was under the impression that comfort was offered to the patient, not the doctor."

Courfeyrac let out a chuckle. “You are more than my doctor, citizen.” His hand made vertical motions against Combeferre’s back. “You are my friend.”

When he felt Combeferre relax, Courfeyrac glanced at the passageway where Enjolras stood mutedly. In his eyes was a silent word of thanks.


End file.
